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No matter what happened, Inej would always have her home, her memories, her Saints. Herself.
It was what she clutched onto as every inch of her clothing and dignity was stripped away. It was what kept her alive as she whispered into a gilded cage each night at the Menagerie: Sankta Magda, Sankta Margeretha, Sankta Marya, keep me safe, please, please, please. It was what stood tall, an island of peace in a sea of danger, even as she cowered before Heleen’s sharp tongue and sharper slaps.
So, when Inej sees lacquered red Jackal masks in the window of a market in East Stave as Kaz informs her about their next job, the fury that builds up inside her is understandable. It bears a certain similarity to the Jackal masks the seers Inej sometimes saw from other caravans as a little child, hiding behind her mother as she looked upon the holy fortune-tellers with awe. But even then, Inej could spot the difference.
Could see the cheapness of the material where real fortune-tellers had masks from the finest craftsmen. Could see the cruel tilt of the Jackal’s mouth where real masks had a serene thin line. Could see, no, feel how utterly wrong it was.
Disgust curls her lip; an instinctual reaction, horror and rage built into her blood at the sight of the desecration of her culture.
“What’s wrong, Wraith?” Kaz’s sharp voice cuts into her thoughts. Inej tenses at the nickname, loathing the fact that Inej needed a reputation to survive when her true self had been hidden long enough, but leaves the matter alone for the moment, preoccupied with her other object of hatred.
“This.” Inej gestures to the shop window, where tourists are entering and admiring the Jackal masks. “Real Suli fortune-tellers are rare. They’re holy men and women. These masks that are handed around like part favors are sacred symbols.” Scorn decorates her voice in the same manner these Kerchmen and tourists used her culture to decorate their faces.
Kaz scoffs — his general reaction to things he disagreed with. “I’ve seen Suli tellers ply their trade in caravans and pleasure ships, Inej. They didn't seem so very holy.”
Inej makes a derisive noise in the back of her throat, dismissing the idea with ease. “They are pretenders, making themselves clowns for you and your ilk.” Inej could sympathize. Sometimes, pretending was the only way to survive in a world determined to make fools out of those who were different.
Kaz raises a bemused eyebrow. “My ilk?”
Inej waves her hand in disgust at his arrogant remarks, declaring, “Shevrati. Know-nothings.” It was a word that often described Kaz and his attitude towards Inej and her faith, her people. “They’re laughing at you behind those masks.”
Like how Inej would laugh when the crowd at her performances believed it when she faked tripping on the wire.
“Not at me, Inej. I’d never lay down good coin to be told my future by anyone — fraud or holy man,” Kaz rasps, cane tapping the ground as they walk.
“Fate has plans for us all, Kaz,” Inej says simply, head in the air not with arrogance, but with the knowledge that she was right.
“Was it fate that took you from your family and stuck you in a pleasure house in Ketterdam?” Kaz mocks. Inej stiffens. “Or was it just very bad luck?”
Her voice turned colder than the Fjerdan mountains when she pushes out a reply. “I’m not sure yet.”
In times like these, Inej thought she might hate Kaz. Hate him for his derision to everything she believed in, hate him for making her steal and maim and murder, hate him for turning her into someone unrecognizable.
But she didn’t. Not really. Because Kaz may be cruel and vicious but there were other people to hate than the boy who saved her. Because there were people even more cruel and vicious out there who had labelled her as exotic goods and sold her body away.
Perhaps she was not sure yet of what to make of Kaz. What she did know was that there were worse people, people who turned her traditions into entertainment to be bought and thrown away.
They were the ones who Inej had to hate. And that she was sure of.